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The
appeal of musicians of the Sixties was that they played from a very
deep, very personal, very poetic part of themselves. They tried
to express the essence of themselves through their music. Musicians
had always tried to express this essence, of course. But in the
Sixties they consciously looked for it and went beyond the norms
of society to develop a new form of music created as a participatory
experience for the audience. They did not simply perform, but interacted
with the audience, inviting them to dance, to change their life-styles,
to become part of a large family of like-minded beings. The concert
space became a communal space for an evening.
If the Sixties generation wanted to change the world, the musicians
were viewed as the leaders. We confused their art with their personalities.
As artists they had discovered how to tap into the essence of the
time, how to utilize masses of energy to move people and communicate
their feelings. In so doing they created a powerful transformative
experience for a culture in the midst of an evolutionary elevation
of awareness.
But the musicians, so successful at their art, often didn't reach
that same level in their personal lives-some failed abysmally-nor
were they necessarily gurus in areas other than music. Dylan
tried to make this clear to me when we met by denying that he was
a political leader.
I was never into the personalities of the performers whom I was
photographing. When I was shooting a concert, only the music and
how the musicians looked as they were playing it mattered. If I
didn't like the music, I couldn't take pictures.
Above all, I was into photography for the image. Meaning and content
were secondary. This was true even though I wanted to say something
with my photos. I felt that the only way to really say something
-to create a feeling in the person seeing the photograph- was to
present a work of art so well composed that its form touched something
within the viewer, helping him or her to open up and understand.
Without first opening, a person cannot learn, and so I was a stickler
for creative control over my work -especially since, in the beginning,
I was not getting paid beyond bare costs for film and paper used
to make the prints.
In 1968 two former legitimate Jewish theaters in New York's East
Village began presenting psychedelic rock concerts -the Anderson,
and Bill Graham's Fillmore East. They were located around the corner
from the offices of The Rat, the underground newspaper that I was
photographing for. I remember my first concert. Anyone would. It
was a new world of fabulous sound, music- filled air, friends everywhere
sharing joints, and an incredibly synchronized Joshua Light Show.
I was very inspired. It changed my life. I had to take pictures.
The Fillmore East opened in NYC on March 8, 1968. Big
Brother and the Holding Company, with Janis
Joplin was the headline act. They had just signed with CBS Records.
It was a memorable evening.
I had free run of the house because the management of the theater-Bill
Graham and John Morris-knew I was working for the underground press.
There were very few other photographers, since photographs of rock
music were not yet commercially viable. I was able to take pictures
from wherever I chose, for as long as I wished, without being worried
that an aggressive guard would come along and rip the cameras out
of my hands, as began to happen in later years. There was no paranoia,
and few restrictions. Today photographers are usually restricted
to shooting the first three songs of a concert and are confined
to the photographer's pit, directly in front of the stage - which
is often not the best place to get a beautiful photograph.
Janis
Joplin was one of the few performers I got to know personally
while I was photographing in New York City. I got an assignment
from New York magazine, to go with Janis and Big Brother to Detroit,
where they had a gig at the Grande Ballroom. There we were hosted
by John Sinclair and MC-5, the reigning Detroit psychedelic band.
Rock bands like Big Brother were part of an underground community
which stretched across the nation. We hung out at MC-5's downtown
communal apartment, which was big and rambling, with people smoking
dope in every room.
I found Janis
to be loving, considerate, and lonely. She seemed to experience
pain even when she was having pleasure. That she couldn't get as
high in real life as she did from her performances saddened and
depressed her. Drugs got out of hand. They made the highs higher
and the lows lower-too low. Her answer was to do more. She was wrong.
One night, after a big show in New York, I shared a cab with her
and a few other members of the band. She directed the cab to drive
to the home of a casual friend who she hoped was there. When she
got out, she shook her head and with a sad smile said, "Man,
what a drag. Here I am a big star and I can't find anyone to be
with." We all invited her to stay with us, but she walked away.
It was snowing. The cab drove on, taking each of us to our destinations,
but for Janis, apparently, there was no place to call home
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